None of the luck
by PulseAndHaze
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, and you have been trying to propose to your boyfriend for the past six months, to no avail. Basically, it's five times Dave was awkward, and one time he was even more so.
1. January 23

_This is it. Now or never, Dave. Just do it. What's the worst that can happen? Well, he could reject you… or break up with you… or leave forever. Shut up, Dave, not helping._

"Dave, what's that look for? Are you brooding again?"

You snap out of it. "Huh?"

John laughs and slips his hand into yours, warming up your freezing fingers as you walk through the snow-dusted park.

"Dude, do you ever pay attention?"

"I'll have you know that I am noticing everything at this very moment, cataloguing shit and deducing people. Solvin' mysteries over here like Sherlock. Come along, Watson, we got bad guys to fuck up."

"Did you know that Watson's first name is actually John?"

"Of course I know that, dumbass. I have literally watched Sherlock about eighty-four billion times with you."

"Yeah, but you never pay attention."

"Yeah I- you know what, fuck you."

He grins, showing off the best pair of buckteeth in the entire world. "Later, Dave, we're in public."

You roll your eyes and force a smirk, but now the anxiety's hit you full-force. You sigh; you really don't think you're going to be able to do it. John notices, despite your best efforts, and squeezes your hand.

"Whatever you're worrying about, it'll be fine. I'm almost sure Karkat is over The Incident by now."

You cringe. "God, don't even mention that. I've never seen someone covered in birthday cake look so menacing."

John laughs his dorky snort-laugh and lets go of your hand, bending down to tie his shoe. You stare at the top of his head for a second before looking off across the park, watching a squirrel scamper up a naked tree and vaguely wishing you had your camera. Suddenly something wet and cold hits your head hard and slides down your neck.

You whip around to find your boyfriend with a shit-eating grin on his buck-toothed face.

"Egbert, I swear to hairy troll Jesus' mother…"

He just laughs.

You bend down quickly and scoop up some snow, launching it at Egbert's face.

"Dave, face shots are no fair!"

"What're you gonna do about it?"

"Oh, I see. You wanna do this?"

"Let's do this."

"Fine."

The most epic snowball fight in all of existence ensues. You absolutely pound John, and in turn you get soaked to the bone. In under an hour, both of you are freezing and laughing your asses off.

The ring box in your pocket is practically burning you through your jeans.

"I surrender, Dave. Let's go home and warm up."

You grin across the park and jog over, wrapping both of your arms around John's waist.

"You suggesting what I think you're suggesting, babe?"

"Mm, maybe I am."

"Sweet. We have marshmallows, right? Those little guys are the shit."

"Kinky."

"You better believe it, sweetheart."

"Shut up, Dave. The shower is calling my name."

"Ugh, you're gonna take all the hot water again."

"Not if you're in there with me."

"Dude, I'm the good-looking one here. I'm s'pposed to be seducing you."

"Hey, I'm plenty good-looking. So you can just go shove it."

"Oh, I will."

You get back to the apartment amid peals of laughter and stolen kisses. The neighbors must hate you, you swear to god.

The ring finds its way discreetly underneath the mixing equipment as you pass it.


	2. February 17

The next time you can pluck up the courage, which ends up being almost three full weeks later, you decide to go for a more indirect route. You figure that you can't exactly chicken out if you aren't even touching the ring.

Unfortunately, Bro decides to drop by on the day of the proposal.

You consider putting it off, but damn it, you have to man up and do your duty to your best friend, movie planner, ghost buster, imp smasher, windy-thing…doer… you know what, screw it, you just want to get it done, and like hell are you going to wait until the next time John concedes to ordering pizza instead of "saving money and cooking like a normal person, Dave!"

You send him into the bedroom to get his DVD collection (John insists on exposing Bro to "good cinema" whenever he drops by), and like the ninja you are, you flashstep over to the pizza, quickly shove the whole thing onto your biggest plate, slip the ring box inside, and flashstep away to the front hall, breathing a little too hard. Your adrenaline levels are spiked as you casually walk back into the kitchen, strategically placed wine glass in your hand, and Jesus, you haven't felt this white-hot and on edge since the game. Bro smirks at you from the couch and raises his beer bottle in salute. You sigh through your nose and take a shaky sip of red as you watch John bounce back into the room like a puppy. You try to focus on the cuteness of his ass. Because _damn_.

But no, anxiety refuses to leave your guts alone, and starts churning them with its bare hands, digging its nails into your internal organs and making you bleed anticipation. Anxiety's a little fucker, you reflect with another tight-lipped swig.

John is fussing at the DVD player, trying to find the right combination of dials, buttons, and knobs that will make his magical (awful) moving pictures appear on the screen. You have the urge to help him, but then you remember that you're in a very specific place for a very specific reason.

That reason waits entirely too long, as Bro refuses to get up and help poor, hapless Egbert in his futile struggle against the dreaded technology of the pre-Netflix era. He may have two extra holes in his head after you're done glaring at him from over your second glass of wine, but it's his goddamned fault. He knows what you're planning.

Finally, _finally, _the Dreaded Loud Noise of Doom (aka the RPX noise, you're just a drama queen) sounds from the television and John gives a triumphant cry. He springs up off his knees and skips (he's almost twenty-six, dammit, he shouldn't be that flexible. Or skipping, actually) to the kitchen. He goes over to the pizza box, grabbing a plate, you feel anxiety prodding your liver again, and—

"AHHHHHHHH!"

John leaps backwards, pizza box flopping open to reveal a massive tarantula. _Bro's_ tarantula, actually, if memory serves. That little shit winks at you (well, you can't actually see his eyes, but fuck if that smirk ain't his 'I win' smirk) and John starts laughing, high and breathy.

Bro: 1 Dave: 0

Marriage Proposals: -2

Goddammit.


	3. March 19-30

You have made _absolutely _fucking_ sure_ that Bro is not even remotely near Washington when you slip the ring into John's jacket. It's the blue one, the one with the little windy symbol embroidered (by Rose, god forbid John take up a hobby involving sharp things) on the left breast zippy-pocket. He seriously loves the thing, wears it everywhere, and it's friggin' March in friggin' _Washington_. Next time he puts his hand into his pocket, you'll finally have it over with.

This, however, also means that you have to follow him around everywhere, so a) you can see his first reaction, and 2) you can make sure he understands. Because we're talking about Egbert here, and let's face it. He probably wouldn't even recognize a good actor if they were naked and dancing a jig on his motherfucking doorstep.

So you are the clingiest and probably most annoying boyfriend _ever_ for the next three days. And not even a single dip into the pocket by those lithe little piano fingers.

And then, of course, the heat wave hits, and since it's Washington, you two really, really, _really_ don't have good air conditioning. Or any air conditioning, really, because it never gets above maybe eighty degrees in this place. Ever.

And now it's _March_, and it's also _ninety-five_ degrees outside. Living here for the past five to seven years has made you soft and unable to withstand the sheer strength of nature's temperature overload, and John was soft in the first place, so both of you sit at the kitchen table in your boxers for the following week and a half. On the ninth day, you decide to just take the thing out of his pocket. It's going to melt at this rate anyway, so what's the point?

The temperature drops below zero two days later, and you both wake up in a tangle of body-heat-seeking limbs and distinctly unavailable blankets. You two end up snowed in up to your waist.

At least you two can have sex now without the fear of spontaneously combusting.


	4. April 13

It's his birthday, and you have gone to the ends of the _Earth_ for the shit you're about to lay out on the table. It's literally been almost a month in the making, and fuck you sideways if this isn't going to work. It _has _to work. You _need_ it to work.

John is strolling through the local artists' fair you've taken him to, licking at some vegan ice cream and looking very content. He's wearing his blue jacket; the irony does not escape you. You lean over to lick some ice cream off the corner of his mouth, and he giggles adorably. You regret having to pull away from your spontaneous and rather sticky kiss, but you have to give the signal.

"Nice day, huh?"

"Yeah, I know! It's like the universe wanted everything to go right today or something!"

"Well, we did create it."

"That's true. Maybe I still have some spooky control over the weather, just like you can always tell what time it is." John wiggles his fingers at you, eyes wide and lips forming a little 'o' shape as he makes a mock-spooky ghost noise.

You can't help but laugh quietly at him.

"Okay, hummingbird."

That's the signal, and you say it loud enough that your buddy Ella can hear from where she's posted at her own art booth nearby. She pulls out her phone and thumbs flash over the keys before she snaps it closed and calls out.

"Dave! Hey, I didn't know you were here!" She beams at them, waving from her stall of framed sketches and paintings. If she wasn't such an amazing artist, you swear she'd be an actress.

You feign surprise and turn towards her. "Ella! My bro, how are you?" You saunter over, and John follows. Seriously, he is the human fucking embodiment of a puppy.

"Oh, I'm fantastic! I've been playing around with a new art style, sort of softer than my normal stuff. Hey, is this your boyfriend?" Ha. As if she didn't know.

"Yeah, this is John. John, this is Ella, she's my friend from school."

"Hey, nice to meet you!"

She shakes his hand warmly. "Nice to meet you too…give me a sec, I was just about to put on some music. Good for business, you know how it is."

You watch and she walks over to a boom box and leans over it, swaying her hips absently in the air as she selects a song. Your people have gotten the text signal by now, and are all milling around next to your little group. And as soon as Ella hits play on that Bruno Mars shit (most ironic music you could think of, by far), they all burst out into the most meticulously choreographed dance in the history of all universes. John bursts out laughing and watches, wide-eyed and grinning, as everyone you know (including all of the trolls, Rose, and even Jade, who flew in from her expedition in Libya just for this) twirls, kicks, dances, and basically destroys all shreds of dignity they have left for your moment.

It's perfect.

When it does end, the last bars of "Just the Way You Are" fading into giggling, you get down on one knee. This is it. You have literally had this thing in the making for _four months,_ and nothing, _nothing_, is going to stop you now.

Except apparently something is, because John immediately pulls you to your feet and hugs you with a fucking vice-grip, and you can hear your ribs creaking, and oh god you can't breathe, Jesus Christ. When he releases you, he's chattering on about how _amazing_ it is that you went through all this trouble just for his _birthday_, and god, Dave, you're the best boyfriend ever!

Everyone looks at each other sympathetically and watches you as you helplessly become puree de Strider in Egbert's arms, a bitter ball of disappointment sinking into your stomach once again. Even Kitkat cringes at it, the perfect rom-com movie moment ruined.

You begin to think that you are literally destined to never get married, ever.


	5. June 2

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are up to your fucking eyeballs with this proposal nonsense. You are also praying to a god you don't even believe in that it won't be a disaster this time.

You walk into the living room, in your slickest red suit from the game, and roll your eyes when there is no mop of wild, dark brown hair peeking up from the back of the couch as your Ghostbusters game is beaten for at _least_ the eightieth time. You change tactics and go down the hall to the bedroom.

"Egbert?"

"Yeah, Dave?" The muffled reply comes from, sure enough, the bedroom. You grin to yourself and walk swiftly over to the door, your fingers are just about to reach the doorknob, when…

**_CRASH!_**

You land flat on your back, having completed a spectacular cartoon-like slip backwards onto your ass. You groan and try to get up, but apparently that trips a goddamned wire and a bucket of flour decides to dump itself all over your motherfucking everything.

John's very unwelcome cackle fills your apartment as you cough out a cloud of flour and turn onto your side, wincing at the pain in your back and butt. The bedroom door opens to reveal a shit-eating grin.

"Oh my god, Dave, I totally got you!"

"God fucking damn it, John, this was my good suit," you reply, annoyed, as you pick yourself up and let another billow of flour erupt from your being.

"Sorry!" He doesn't sound sorry at all. "Why were you even wearing a suit, anyway?"

"You know what? It doesn't even fucking matter anymore," you growl and shake even _more_ of the white powder out of your hair.

"Aw, Dave…"

"Don't you 'aw Dave' me," you say, poking him hard in the chest with a flour-covered finger. "I am actually considering revoking sex for a week after this."

John's face of horrific amusement morphs into one of crestfallen horror. "But-"

You hold up a silencing hand. "You're digging yourself in deeper, dude. You have the right to remain silent, because anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of Dave Strider's sexual decision-making."

His mouth snaps closed, and for the rest of the day you seethe at him and his silence. Fortunately for John, the bath he helped you take was far too enjoyable to make good on your threat to abstain from sex, and by the next morning you have already forgiven him.

You are also sure that there is a god and that he hates you, because there's no way that anyone's luck is actually this bad.

* * *

**If you've gotten this far, congratulations! You have a remarkably high tolerance for utter bullshit. I wrote this based on a request from the lovely amaya-tendo, who has been remarkably patient with me and my very poor time management skills. Sixth chapter should be up either tomorrow or Tuesday. Please review, I crave your comments on my rambling like a pregnant woman craves pretzels and ice cream. Was that a weird comparison? Yeah, oh well. Thanks!**

**PulseAndHaze**


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